A Pensieve for Everyone
by moonyschick25
Summary: If each character had a way of relating one moment in their lives, which one would they choose? Now each character, from Sirius to Percy, will get a chance to share a story. Some are funny, some heartbreaking. All are brutally honest.
1. Sirius Black

People believe that true love, the kind that causes you ecstasy and misery, joy and grief, comes from sex. If you haven't shagged them, than it can't be there. Maybe if you've kissed you can manage, especially if you were forbidden to kiss. But a relationship built on no sexual gestures or desires whatsoever? It doesn't happen. And if they aren't part of your family, you can forget about even crying when they die, especially if you're a male. They didn't matter. They weren't a part of you, as they say. Because only sex or blood makes you worthy of being a part of each other. Only those things can cause you to want to rip your own head off to ease the pain of losing them. Only those things can make you want to spend every moment with them. That's what stories tell you. It happens to be a complete and utter lie.

I had everything I wanted. Money, a house, friends, a cause to live for. But there was one thing, one person, who meant more to me than anyone else in the world. He was my best friend. No, he was more than that. He was partner, my twin, and, in my mind, my brother. No blood bound us together, but we felt an inexplicable bond with each other from nearly the first time we met.

And people knew. James Potter and Sirius Black. The infamous duo. Oh, we had others join us from time to time. Remus was always a welcome third member. In fact, I loved him as well. But not like I loved James. Nobody ever came close to him.

It sounds stupid, I know. But that's what I was saying before. You say you love someone, and people automatically think: sex or family. James was neither, but, God, did I love him.

My thoughts aren't as clear as they used to be. Here, nothing is clear. It's hard to tell day from night, summer from winter, sane from mad. Still, my mind is clearer than most of the others here. Clear enough to know that I am not supposed to be here. Clear enough to remember what happened to him and how it was, and wasn't, my fault.

…..

I should have kept my mouth shut. But then, I was never any good at that. Too clever for my own good, or anyone else's. I really thought I had things figured out. It all made sense, the pieces fit together, and I was confident.

Remus had been gone for weeks. No one really knew what he was doing. Oh, he'd show up for meetings, and he was always there for duty and whatnot. He was as kind and helpful as always. But he wasn't around like he used to be. James was happier than I'd seen him since his mother passed away. Lily had given birth to Harry, and things couldn't have been going better for the Potters. Peter and I were lucky to know them, and we basked in their happiness. So, naturally, I was suspicious that Remus, who we'd been so close to at school, didn't do the same. It was natural to be alert, to not trust him. Unfortunately, it wasn't right.

People were dying and disappearing left and right. You never knew, after leaving a meeting, who would live for another. No one was safe. Though we all trusted each other, it was at an arms distance. Nobody could come too close, because even if their intentions were good, if Voldemort got a hold of them, no information was sacred.

That is why, when the Potters needed a Secret Keeper, there were only two obvious choices. Dumbledore offered, and looking back, he would have been the best. Voldemort was scared of the man, and rightly so. He couldn't have touched the Potters if Dumbledore didn't want him to.

But James wanted me to do it. I won't deny, even now, that I was eager. I felt sure that, even if Voldemort caught me, he wouldn't be able to pry their location from me. Besides, I wasn't about to get caught.

There was a part of me, however, that knew such things were out of my control. If he wanted me, he could find me. And once I had been tortured long enough, who knew what I would say? Such things happened frequently in those times. So I decided I could trick Voldemort. I would choose someone no one would ever suspect, but someone who was just as loyal to James and Lily as me. Peter Pettigrew. Slow, silly, clumsy, excitable Peter. He worshipped James, and there was no one better at keeping out of harm's way. Most importantly, Voldemort would never think of him.

I told James the plan, and he agreed, as did Peter. We didn't tell Remus. Of all the things I did wrong, this is the one that causes me more pain than anything else. I couldn't have known what Peter would do. But I did see the pain and bewilderment on Remus's face when, every time he saw me, I made some excuse not to stay and talk. Now, it seems unspeakably cruel and foolish. At the time, however, I thought I was perfectly justified in isolating the man. And now, though James and Lily, wherever they have gone, are at peace, Remus is alone and in pain, and it is my fault. But I am getting ahead of myself.

I was told that they had performed the spell, and everything had gone well. Peter went into hiding, and we had arranged for me to check on him periodically so that, if he was captured, I might find out and be able to warn the Potters before disaster struck. We figured we had thought of everything. We were so clever, fooling the greatest Dark wizard of all time. But we knew nothing of what was to come.

That Halloween night, I was supposed to check on Peter. I thought nothing of it. I assumed he'd be at home, safe and sound, and we'd have a talk about Quidditch or something equally unimportant. But when I got there, he was nowhere to be found. I knocked. I called out his name. No response. Finally, I broke down the door, still refusing to believe anything was wrong. He was probably just asleep.

The house was undisturbed, nothing out of place. I ran upstairs, but his room was as empty as all the others in the house. Clearly he was no longer there. Now I felt my heart race. Where was he? He wouldn't have just left. But it didn't seem that he'd been attacked. Something was wrong. Deep down, I think I knew, even then, what had happened, what he had done, but I told myself that going to see James was just a precaution. Surely nothing had happened. Despite my shaking hands and pounding heart, I tried to convince myself that nothing could possibly be wrong.

When I reached their house, I immediately knew that something dreadful had indeed happened. The house was destroyed. Fire was still coming out of it, though some people were trying to put it out. My stomach clenched, but still, my mind came up with reasons not to panic. Even if they had been attacked, that didn't necessarily mean…no, there was no reason to think that at all. For a few moments more, I was allowed that sweet state of mind that is denial. I willed myself to move forward, and there, lying outside, just pulled from the burning house, were two bodies.

I couldn't move. I couldn't think. This wasn't happening, it just wasn't possible. The world would stop if it had really happened. The people around me still shouted and moved, and surely such things couldn't happen if he was...

But there was no doubt about it. It was him, his glasses still on his face, his hair messed up as usual, and oh God, his eyes were open and blank and he was gone. I'd seen death before, many times. Never had it hit me like this. How could someone so filled with life and love just be gone? He was so young, he hadn't lived. He had a family…and there was Lily too. Her eyes were closed, her red hair so bright I reached out and touched it, half hoping she'd wake up, shake James awake, slap him for being such a lazy prat, and everything would be all right again.

But such things don't happen. In fairy tales, perhaps. Not in real life. In real life, the people you love stay dead forever, and you can hope to see them again when you die, but that's all it is. Hope. And at that moment, I can't say I had any of it. In that moment, I thought James was lost to me for eternity. Even if his soul was wandering about somewhere, who was to say that I would be able to find it? Then the truly horrible thought, the one that poisons my mind even now, hit me. What if his soul, when the time came, hid from me? What if he hated me for what I had done? Because it was my fault this had happened. I had done this to the person I loved most in the world, and nothing could ever change that. Two people were dead because of me, and who knew what had happened to Harry-

Harry. Fear rushed through me as I looked around frantically. Surely he couldn't be dead too, or else he'd be here, with them. But then, how could he have survived when they didn't? Either way, I had to find out, and it only took a few minutes of mindless wandering to find him. Or rather, to find Hagrid, who was holding the baby clumsily in his giant arms. The child was wailing and scared, but he was alive, and that small comfort kept me from completely falling to the ground when Hagrid looked at me with tears in his eyes. I turned away and shook my head. There was nothing either of us could say that would make any difference. They were dead, and that was that.

Hagrid was saying something, and I couldn't understand, and I didn't want to, because what difference did it make, really? Saying everything would be all right, or they were in a better place…none of that mattered to me. He didn't know those things, and I didn't know those things, and how could they be in a better place when right here was where they should have been? With their son, their baby…Remus…me. What about the places we were in now? How could anything possibly ever be all right?

And then he handed me Harry. I hardly knew what was happening until he was in my arms, sobbing violently. He looked so like James. There was a cut on his forehead, and though I knew such a mark could only have been made by Dark Magic, I was too overwhelmed to question it. He was alive, and at the moment, that was all I needed to know. I smoothed his hair, and he looked up at me for a moment before burying his face in my chest and continuing to howl. His tiny fists grabbed at my robes, and I whispered something to him, I don't know what. The same nonsense that Hagrid had been telling me, no doubt. Perhaps it isn't nonsense after all, and, as Remus told me many times, I'm simply to cynical to appreciate its truth. After a while, Harry relaxed, and as I rubbed his back, I knew what I needed to do. It was my responsibility, after all.

"I'll take him from here, Hagrid. I'm his godfather, I ought to take care of him."

He protested. Dumbledore wanted him to go to his aunt's, he said. I argued for a bit, but something else distracted me. Harry had somewhere to go. Nothing could be done for James and Lily. Peter…I had to find him. He would pay for this. If I was the last thing I did, I would make sure that he paid for what he had done.

I let Harry go with Hagrid, offering him my motorbike. I didn't need it anymore. It was too noticeable, and Peter, the sneaking little bastard, would see it coming easily. I left soon after Hagrid took off, thinking of places he might be, and how on earth I could track him.

It turned out to be easy enough. He was sitting in a pub filled with wizards celebrating the defeat of Voldemort. For a spineless coward, he had a lot of nerve. It made me laugh. The fool had inadvertently made himself enemies on both sides. The Death Eaters would be after his blood just as much as me. He was only safe in the presence of people who didn't know he was a parasite out for himself.

He didn't see me at first, which was fine with me. I didn't want to create a scene. There was no reason to involve so many others in something that only involved us. However, the nervous man couldn't keep his eyes from roaming the room, and they eventually landed on me. I didn't move until he did. He excused himself and exited the pub, and I followed him out.

"How much longer did you think you could keep your little game up? Did you think I wouldn't find out? If I had it my way, everyone would know, right now, what you've done, and you'd be wriggling on the floor like the worm you are! How can you even show your face here, after what you did?"

I didn't say it. He did. In front of a whole street of Muggles, who now were staring in shock at the scene, he accused me of his own crime. This wasn't supposed to be how it happened. I opened my mouth, but he continued, his face red, his body shaking. I knew he was terrified out of his mind, but to the people around us, he must have appeared the poster child for righteous anger.

"Lily and James, Sirius! How could you? How could you betray your best friends?"

He was crying. I didn't know what to do. I had expect him to cower and grovel, and for me to be in complete control. But I had underestimated him. He knew what to do, and he did it all without shame. He sobbed and shouted, and I was too terrified to do anything about it. Then he said something that made every part of me scream in guilt and fury,

"They're dead, Sirius! And you did that, you did it!"

How dare he? If there was anyone more to blame than me, it was him. I drew my wand, but he was prepared for that. His wand was behind his back and ready before mine had left my pocket. The street blew up around us, and he was gone. I saw the rat scurry into the sewers, and heard the people screaming in pain and fear. I knew that I would be blamed for this, and that he would walk free. I didn't care anymore. His finger was there, cut off so that everyone would think I had killed him. Clever. God, I was a fool for thinking I understood anything. Nothing made sense, and why should it? Why should it make sense to someone who couldn't even see a rat when he was right in front of him?

I laughed, because nothing was funny anymore. It wasn't worth saving the laughter for something else, because there was nothing else. James was gone, Peter was gone, and I was gone. Dead, running, and screwed. Life wasn't supposed to be like this, but it was, and how could you not laugh at such a complete and utter disaster? If I didn't laugh, I'd lose my mind. Perhaps it was already gone. But really, what did it matter anymore?

I didn't protest when the Ministry wizards came to take me away. I didn't say anything to any of the men who came to question me. They thought I was guilty of blowing up the street, and I knew I was guilty of killing my best friend, so what did it matter what exactly I was guilty of? Did it matter if I killed thirteen people, or just two? I don't think so.

When the dementors first came, I passed out. When I woke up, I was in a cell, and it wasn't until then that I realized that there was something left in me after all. I actually felt saner there than I had in the streets. Because the dementors were trying to take something from me, which meant I still had something to take, something I could fight for. I've done a good job of it. I am still me. This is not always a comfort; in fact, many times it brings me grief and disgust. I've done so much wrong, and I may never be given the chance to right it.

There is one thing I know, however. As long as I am me, I can still think. I can still hope. That is humanity's only defense against the darkness, and I won't be giving it up anytime soon. Maybe someday, it will be enough to get me out of this place. It's only a matter of waiting out the storm.


	2. Severus Snape

Though I see my mother's pale skin and perpetually stringy hair in the mirror, it is my father's voice I hear. His posture, his temper when angered, his dark moods, his selfish nature. These have all become mine. The man who wanted little to do with me shaped my entire being without knowing it.

At first, it terrified me. Why did I feel this way; why did I want these things? I wasn't my father. I didn't desire that life, and I shoved it from me vehemently. But these things are beyond anyone's control. They are deep in your blood, written in your every fiber. You cannot be anything other than what you are made of. I tried to be my mother in every way possible, but one cannot replace one parent with more of the other. The Half-Blood Prince is no different from the Snape boy who lived at Spinner's End, no matter what I pretended or wished was so.

Now I can admit my father's influence. In fact, considering the dangerous position I am in now, who he was seems more important than ever. No father gets away without teaching his son something, and, though he may not have meant it, Tobias Snape gave me a lesson that dictates every decision I make.

….

Nobody knew the reason for my father's bitter disposition. Even my mother had always known him as a stern man at best. She claimed things had taken a turn for the worse once he had found out she was a witch, which wasn't until they'd married. Tobias Snape was the sort of man who wanted to know the goings on of things at all times. To be lied to by the woman he trusted and perhaps even loved didn't affect him well at all. Everything he knew had been a lie, and this was not acceptable. He lashed out. Understandable, perhaps. Were I a different sort of man, forgivable. But like my father, I wasn't built to forgive. I was made to resent and begrudge and hate the things that made me upset and angry.

My father worked at a factory a few miles away. I hardly ever saw him in the morning, though it was impossible not to hear him. I doubt anyone could curse louder and more fluently than my father did every morning upon finding that the dishes weren't done, or his mug had been misplaced. My mother would wake up and confront him about the noise, and that's when the arguing began. Every morning, five o'clock, Monday to Saturday. I could never go to sleep after that. I'd wait until the front door snapped shut, and my father was out of the house before slipping out of bed and joining my mother for a silent breakfast.

One morning, when I was about six years old, was different. I had fallen asleep to the sound of my parents screaming at each other about something. It didn't really matter what. They could get into a dispute about anything, and I knew better than to try and reason out why they did it.

When I woke in the morning, however, there was no noise. I looked at my clock in alarm. A quarter past five. My father never left until at least half past five. I couldn't hear my mother, either, who was always awake by now. There was no shouting, not even harsh whispers they sometimes adopted in order to create the illusion they were being reasonable. I crept out of bed and into the kitchen, worried that something dreadful had happened.

To my surprise, my father was standing over the sink, washing plates. His head shook as he muttered to himself.

"Be back by tonight. Where's she going to go? Got no money. Can't conjure that out of thin air, I know that much! Doesn't even matter, never did anything around here anyway. If those hocus pocus friends of hers are real, I hope they're ready to clean up after her."

It was then that I realized the couch in the living room where my mother usually slept was empty. She had left. But where had she gone, and why hadn't she taken me? If she had some magical friends to go to, shouldn't I have been taken along as well? Panic set in. I had no desire to stay in a house alone with my father. He was not particularly cruel to me, but his anger at my mother made him avoid me at all costs. If I did manage to showcase my existence in a way that necessitated his intervention, he responded as if I were something beneath his notice that he hoped to get rid of quickly.

He turned around and, spotting me, put his hand to his forehead. Out came a string of curses.

"Damn it all to hell! What I am supposed to do with him? I can't take him to work, where'll they put him? I can't get someone to watch him now…Why couldn't she have taken him with her? What good is he going to do me?"

I had to agree with him. All I would be was a nuisance. It is entirely probable that my mother left me with this intent, though at the time the thought didn't occur to me.

"Can't leave him here alone…Can't take off work…"

He paced the kitchen, and I stared at him, wondering what he'd decide to do with me. Send me away, perhaps? Though I hated my home, I felt my stomach twist into a knot at the thought of leaving. I was six years old, and it was all I knew. After a minute, he stopped and looked at me.

"I'll ask Mary to keep you in her office; she loves kids. You won't bother her."

He stared at me for a long time. I nodded my head, wanting him to look away. To my horror, he walked even closer to me, his gaze relentless.

"But if you get yourself into any trouble, you'll have me to deal with, you understand? I won't tolerate any nonsense, and neither will anyone else."

I nodded again. His fierce glare softened to his regular disdainful stare.

"Sit down," he said. "You'll need to eat something. And I'll have to make another sandwich for lunch."

He looked at the clock and cursed again. "I'll never get there on time."

He turned back to me. "Get dressed."

I didn't need telling twice. Running out of the kitchen into my own small room, I pulled on the first things I could find. I'd never bothered much with clothes. In my case, it did little good. Most of my clothing came second hand. Some of it belonged to my parents. I didn't usually care, as I rarely left the house. Still, a child knows when they've been cheated out of something, often more keenly than an adult does. I saw other children and the way they dressed. My own mismatched and patched clothing differed from their neat pants and colorful shirts, and felt that difference acutely. Luckily, a child is also easily distracted, and sooner or later, I would forget the embarrassment.

I hastened back into the kitchen, where my father was busy over the stove. He looked up at me.

"Get a plate and fork and sit down," he ordered.

I did, and he deposited a large amount of scrambled eggs onto my plate. The eggs looked undercooked, but there was no choice but to eat them. I knew better than to question my father on anything. As I ate, I watched my father prepare another sandwich for lunch. He worked with an intensity that fascinated me. Everything was precise and efficient. He seemed to notice nothing but the immediate task at hand, and yet everything was done with such grace, he had to have an ultimate goal in mind. As he wrapped it up, he caught me looking.

"What are you staring at?"

"Nothing," I said.

"That sandwich not all right?"

"No!" I shook my head. "Its fine, I just was watching."

My father frowned. "Finish up and get your shoes. We've got to go. Never been late in my life, and I'm not going to start now. We'll have to take the bus."

A few minutes later we were out in the cold morning air that soon made my fingers and nose numb. The bus stop was deserted. We stood there for several minutes, my father's posture rigid and tense. He did not like to be kept waiting, as it was a waste of his valuable time.

When the bus finally did pull up to the stop, my father wasted no time in getting on, pulling me by my jacket up the stairs. The bus was full of people, most of them grim and serious looking. Tobias Snape fit right in. He selected a seat in the middle of the bus, and I sat next to him. The bus soon began to start, and the warmth and motion made me sleepy. My father must have noticed, for he said gruffly:

"We'll be a few minutes. Sleep if you want."

I closed my eyes and leaned against the seat. The noise made it impossible to fall asleep, but it was enough to just sit there and rest. Besides, listening becomes much easier when the eyes are closed. I could hear the rustling of newspapers, the man discussing politics with his neighbor, and the rumble of the tires over the street that provided a background for it all. I became lost in the sounds, and it took a gentle nudge from my father for me to realize the bus was coming to a stop.

"Let's go," he said.

He walked at such a pace I had to run to keep up. The main building was only a few blocks away, and as we entered it, I saw my father's chest relax. We had made it in time. My father crouched down and looked me in the eye.

"See that office over there? Mary will be at the desk. You tell her you're Snape's boy, and you need a place to keep for today. She'll take care of you. I'll get you when I'm done, all right?"

I nodded, and my father hurried away. I stood in the hall for a moment, until two burly, fierce looking men entered, motivating me to move. I entered the room, and saw a woman no older than thirty sitting at desk. She looked up at the creak of the door and smiled.

"Can I help you?" she asked. Encouraged by her tone, I edged closer to the desk.

"I-um…my dad told me to…"

"Are you Tobias's son?" I nodded, thankful she had understood my meaning.

"I can tell. You look just like him," she said, evidently believing this would be a source of pride for me. "Do you need to see him? I can call him if you'd like-"

"No," I said hastily. "he told me to come here because…because I need to go somewhere because my mum's gone today and I can't go anywhere else so he said to come here because you liked kids and I wouldn't bother you."

She laughed, and I blushed, embarrassed at my rushed speech.

"Of course you can stay here, sweetheart. Here, let me see…" she rummaged through a drawer and then looked back up at me. "Oh, come over here and sit down-what's your name, darling?"

"Severus," I said, moving behind her desk. She had pulled out markers and some blank paper.

"Severus. Severus Snape. I like it. Very important sounding," she smiled at me again. "Now, do you like to color? Because if you do, that desk over there is free, and you can use any of those markers or pencils over there, or the ones over here."

Art was not one of my interests, but the woman was being so kind to me, I could hardly refuse the offer. Besides, the array of colors was far more varied than the ones my mother kept at home. If nothing else, I wished to see how they all looked on paper. I set to work, and Mary continued with her own papers.

Around noon, my stomach began to complain, and I remembered the sandwich my father had so carefully prepared that morning. He'd forgotten to give it to me, I realized in alarm. What would I eat now?

"Just about time for lunch." Mary glanced at the clock. "Did you dad leave you a lunch?"

"He made one," my voice trembled. "But I think he forgot."

She frowned. "Well, in that case, you can share mine. I've got more than enough food here."

She reached into her bag and pulled out a sack lunch. "Now, let's see, I've got some carrots and-"

The door burst open to reveal my father.

"Sorry," he said breathlessly. He held out a bag holding my lunch. "Forgot to give him this."

Mary beamed and took it. "Well, that clears that up, doesn't it, Severus? Thank you, Tobias."

"He behaving himself?" His head jerked in my direction. "Because if he's not-"

"He's been perfectly delightful," Mary assured him. "I've hardly noticed he's here. That's a good boy you've got there."

"Well, I've got to go back," he said, ignoring her. A moment later, the door snapped firmly shut. Mary held my sandwich out to me.

"That was nice of him to remember," she said. I too ignored her.

Hours passed, and I spent them doing all sorts of nonsense. Once I'd tired of pictures, I picked up the newspaper and began to read. My mother had taught me how, and I read anything I could get my hands on, though I still struggled to understand much of it. Mary, seeing what I was doing, took it upon herself to teach me some new words. I liked Mary. She reminded me of my mother, but she was also something more. My mother loved me, I knew that. But she wasn't warm like Mary was. She didn't smile and laugh easily, or call me "dear" or "sweetheart". I caught myself wishing that perhaps Mary would take me home with her and be my new mother, since my own apparently did not want me. Of course, I knew such an idea was ridiculous, but such fancies are common in small children, however irrational they may be.

The end of the day finally came, and my father entered the office once more.

"How are you, Tobias?" Mary asked.

"All right. Good day. Severus behaved?"

"Oh, we had a wonderful time. Will he be back tomorrow?"

My father ran his fingers though his hair. "Don't know. I've got to see if I can find someone to watch him if his mother doesn't come home. Is he too much trouble?"

"Oh no! Not at all, he's welcome any time." She turned and grinned at me. "Well, you both take care, all right?"

"You too. See you tomorrow, Mary." My father opened the door and motioned for me to exit first. I gave Mary a swift smile and wave before leaving.

My father was silent until we had left the building. Then he turned and looked at me.

"Thank you for being good for Mary."

"You're welcome," I murmured.

"Today wasn't easy for either of us," he stated. "But we got through it all right, didn't we?"

I nodded, glad that I had managed not to anger him, and surprised that he actually appeared impressed by something I had done.

We walked home, which took quite a long while. My father was used to the journey, but my small legs weren't. I began to fall behind. My father sighed in resignation.

"Come here," he said. He held out his arms. At the look of alarm on my face, he frowned.  
>"Well, would you rather walk? Let me carry you."<p>

He lifted me up and continued on his way. I clung to his neck, and felt what most children feel about their fathers at one time or another. The feeling that, when you are with them, nothing can touch you. Despite the fact that my father was a mean, harsh man with few redeeming qualities, he was my father, and in that moment, I felt safe in his arms. We did not exchange any words, but it was better that way for both of us.

We reached home, and he deposited me onto the doorstep.

"Dinner and then bed," he said, opening the door.

Dinner turned out to be a simple enough affair, as he prepared some of the leftovers from the night before. After this, I slipped into my room, preparing to go to bed on my own as I usually did. To my surprise, the door opened, and my father entered.

"You're like your mother, the way you go sneaking in and out of places. Can't keep track of you. I meant to give you think before you went to bed."

He held out a chocolate bar, a rare sight in our house. My father did not like spending money on anything we didn't need, and chocolate was most definitely on the list of needless expenses. I took it eagerly.

"Bought it from Joe Richards at work. Thought you'd like it."

He looked embarrassed, and I couldn't blame him. Never had we had a discussion about what I would like to have. In fact, I had previously believed that what I wanted was none of my father's concern.

"Now, I don't want you eating it now," he said. "You've got to get to bed, and if you eat that, you'll be up all night. Just put it away for later."

I immediately went to my sock drawer and placed it carefully on top. My father nodded.

"That's good. Now, get to bed, all right?"

He watched me climb into bed and settle down before turning to leave.

"'Night," he said stiffly, closing the door gently.

I closed my eyes, a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. I felt oddly contented with life, and had a new respect for my father. He had taken care of me. I still didn't believe he truly loved me or wanted me, but he cared about me. That much could no longer be denied.

My mother turned up again the next day, and my father let her back in with few protests. He grumbled and complained, but he let her stay. Before, I would have wondered why. But after the events of the day before, I understood my father much better.

My father realized something that many never understand. It is easy to take care of yourself or loved ones. But to take care of people you do not love is not easy. To realize that human life is more important than petty disagreements or grudges is a surprisingly difficult thing. True, my father was not big enough to treat me or my mother with kindness or warmth. But he took care of us until his death, because it was his duty.

When he passed away, I was the only one present. He did not say anything profound to me. No apologies or loving words passed from his lips. But he clung to my hand and looked into my eyes hungrily. I could sense his fear, and, for reasons I could not pinpoint at the time, I attempted to comfort him. My duty as a son had come. I had to help him pass on, and how could I neglect that when he had taken care of me?

My life is not about pleasing others. It isn't about making people happy or grateful. My duty is to keep others safe. This seems an adequate undertaking to me, and I cannot say that what my father did or what I now do is any less important than loving or encouraging others. In the end, what meaning do those things have without real action to back them up?

I saw my father's face as he died. The man who had lived in his life in an almost perpetual state of bitterness and discontent died with a peaceful expression. If there is hope for him, there is hope for me. Of all the things my father has given me, that hope is the most precious.


End file.
